The latest plan, floated with the confidence of a minister who hasn’t spoken to an actual teenager since dial‑up, is to ban under‑16s from using social media altogether. According to the political mood music, the House of Lords is already on board, the Commons is warming up, and within a year we could see “highly effective age checks” rolled out across every platform. Because if there’s one thing the internet is famous for, it’s people telling the truth about their age.
The idea is simple: protect children from doomscrolling, online bullying, and the kind of algorithmic rabbit holes that can turn a perfectly normal 14‑year‑old into someone who thinks the moon landing was faked by lizard people. And fair enough, the online world is a mess. But banning teens from social media is like banning adults from biscuits. It sounds noble, but the only guaranteed outcome is a thriving black market in Bourbons.
We’re told this is all about wellbeing. Ministers speak solemnly about “addictive design features”, as if TikTok is a nicotine patch with dance routines. They promise “rapid implementation”, which is government‑speak for “we’ll get to it right after we’ve finished fixing the potholes, the NHS, and the economy”. Meanwhile, parents are being reassured that the state will finally step in and do what they’ve been trying to do for years: stop their children from staring at a glowing rectangle long enough to remember what their family looks like.
But here’s the problem. Teenagers are better at technology than the people trying to regulate it. These are kids who can jailbreak a phone faster than a minister can say “consultation period”. They can set up VPNs, burner accounts, and entire digital identities before breakfast. If the government thinks a ban will keep them offline, it might want to have a quiet word with Australia, where a similar policy has mostly resulted in teenagers becoming experts in circumventing Australia.
And then there’s the philosophical question: if you ban under‑16s from social media, who will teach the rest of us what the latest memes mean? Without teenagers, the cultural timeline collapses. Middle‑aged people will be wandering around saying “slay” in the wrong context. Society will crumble.
Still, the government insists it’s acting “in months, not years”. Which is impressive, because that’s roughly the same timeframe in which a teenager can create a new account, get banned, create another, and become a micro‑influencer. If nothing else, this policy will give young people a valuable lesson in bureaucracy: no matter how fast you are, the government will always be at least three steps behind.
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The Swedish company Oatly has just lost a long-running legal battle with Dairy UK. It’s all over Oatly’s attempt to trademark the slogan "Post Milk Generation." The Supreme Court has ruled that they can't have it. Why? Because under a bit of assimilated EU law, the kind we kept just for the nostalgia, presumably, the word "milk" is a protected "designation."
To qualify as milk in the eyes of the law, the liquid must be a "normal mammary secretion." I don’t know about you, but that’s not a phrase I want to see on a café menu. "Would you like some normal mammary secretions in your Americano, sir? Or are you more of a squeezed-grain-water person?" It doesn’t exactly scream "luxury lifestyle." Nothing says ‘refreshing beverage’ like a phrase that sounds like it belongs in a vet’s report.
Dairy UK, the trade association for people who deal in secretions, argued that using the word "milk" in any context for a non-dairy product is "oblique and obscure." They’re worried we’re all so dim that if we see the words "Post Milk Generation" on a carton of oat drink, we’ll immediately think, "Ah, finally! Milk that comes from a post!"
The judges agreed. They said the slogan doesn’t "clearly" describe the product as being milk-free. Instead, they said it describes the consumers, specifically a younger generation who are "concerned" about dairy. So, you can be a "Post Milk" person, you just can't drink a "Post Milk" drink.
It’s the kind of institutional logic that makes your brain itch. The court even came up with a hypothetical analogy: a "Post Alcohol Generation" drink. They said that wouldn't clearly tell you if the drink was alcohol-free or just low-alcohol. I’d argue that if I’m in a "Post Alcohol" phase of my life, the last thing I want is a drink that’s "obliquely" trying to get me hammered.
What’s truly magnificent is the selective nature of the ban. Oatly is banned from using the trademark on food and drink, but they are allowed to keep it on their T-shirts. Apparently, the law assumes that while you might accidentally drink a T-shirt thinking it’s a pint of semi-skimmed, the risk is statistically low enough to be permitted.
We’re living in a world where the government can't fix a pothole or find a bin man who works on Tuesdays, but we have five Supreme Court justices, Lords Hamblen and Burrows among them, spent months ensuring that your oat juice doesn’t get ideas above its station.
It’s about "fair competition," apparently. Because nothing says "fair" like the massive dairy industry using international regulations to bully a Swedish company over a three-word slogan.
If we’re going to be this pedantic, we need to go all the way. I want "Coconut Milk" rebranded as "Tropical Nut Sweat." I want "Milk of Magnesia" renamed "Chalky Tummy Slurry." And let’s not even get started on "The Milky Way." If there isn't a giant cow floating in the vacuum of space, I’m calling the Intellectual Property Office.
But don’t worry, as a middle-aged man whose knees make a noise like a bag of crisps every time I stand up, I’m clearly not part of the "Post Milk Generation" anyway. I’m part of the "Could Really Use a Sit Down" generation.
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Every January 1st, we decide that the version of us that’s been fueled by cheese boards and cheap Prosecco for three weeks is suddenly going to become an Olympic-level athlete. We sign up for the gym, a place that, for the rest of the year, is just a building we walk past while feeling slightly guilty and we buy enough kale to fill a compost heap.
The New Year’s resolution is a fascinating scam because we are both the con artist and the mark. We tell ourselves, “This is the year I learn Mandarin,” when we haven’t even mastered the art of putting the laundry away in the same week it was washed.
The gyms love it, of course. Their entire business model relies on you paying for a year-long membership in a moment of madness and then never showing up again. You’re essentially paying a monthly fee for the right to say, “I really should go to the gym,” which is a very expensive form of self-flagellation.
By February, the kale has turned into a liquid at the bottom of the fridge, and the only "running" we’re doing is running out of excuses. But don't worry, next year will be different. We'll tell ourselves the same lie, and we’ll believe it again. It’s the ultimate triumph of hope over experience.
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